Nights Like This
by dementedly
Summary: He hated nights like this. - Fawning Kyle, one-sided Cryle, masturbation.


He hated nights like this.

Green eyes glanced to his left, gaze momentarily settling on the alarm clock at his side. With red digits mocking him, he shifted to peer at his bed's headboard, absently examining the pictures and small posters tacked to it. It was bordering two in the morning, and the redhead still couldn't sleep. He grimaced. He was going to be groggy as hell in the morning. But that was the least of his worries right now.

No, Kyle, was more concerned with the aching stiffness that just didn't want to go away; just as stubborn as he was, it seemed. He'd tried everything from a cold shower to distracting himself with trivial things, such as his schoolwork, but that wasn't helpful at all. Because when he thought of school, his mind always drifted back to cool, slate hued eyes. He shuddered, dipping his subtly freckled face to bury it into the fluff of his pillow, muting a stifled groan. No way. There was absolutely no way he could be... attracted... to that asshole.

He shifted beneath his blanket, back arching forward as his hips pressed forward into the firmness of that warm mattress. "... Ah." The more he tried to expel the vision of those pale eyes that bore into his mind, the more he found himself thinking about his stoic classmate. "Fuck," he grumbled, arms clenched about his pillow and repositioning it so that only his mouth was covered. His gaze had become half-lidded as warmth began to rise from his loins to his neck and soon coloring pale cheeks.

He might not have wanted to admit it, but there were physical attributes to the other that he appreciated. While it might have heated him, being the shortest of his cluster of friends, even if by only an inch, he couldn't deny that the extra few inches the Tucker boy had on him was... well, he didn't -hate- it. The same way he didn't hate that sleek black hair that framed a fine, defined face; or the lean, subtly but noticeably muscled physique that he'd only got the chance to glance at in gym. But what seemed to effect him the most where those unreadable eyes.

He groaned again, the friction between his concealed cock and mattress almost unbearable. In one quick motion, he shifted again, rolling onto his back and pushing that now annoying blanket aside. He was too hot for that. As he sprawled out on his back, breathing slow and heavy, nimble fingers moved to lift his t-shirt, just above his abdomen before his fingers shamelessly delved into the confines of his boxers, hips lifting slightly as he pushed them down. Just enough to free that throbbing shaft to the cool air. The contact was enough to make him gasp.

Holy shit.

This wasn't normal behavior for him. Unlike most guys his age, it was rare that he found himself attracted to anyone. Puberty hadn't exactly reached him the way it had reached his peers. Dealing with hormones had never been a problem, considering his lack of physical attraction. It wasn't every night that he found himself slowly but firmly bucking his hips, thrusting a pre-slicked cock-no, his cock, into fucking his own hand, wishing that it wasn't -his- hand.

But it didn't matter. It felt good. No, it felt fucking amazing, and that's what mattered. What mattered was the face he saw behind closed eyes. What mattered was the subtle smirk he envisioned on that face that sent him over to edge. That made him bite down on the inside of his cheek, though that didn't silence a incessant groan as his body tensed, fist clutched about the base of his cock as he came.

A few moments later, his body relaxed against the warmth of his bed. It felt euphoric. A temporary high that soon fell as he lifted his head to glance down at his stained stomach. With a grunt, he began to pull his shirt off, using it to clear his stomach of the mess he'd made, groggily tossing the shirt aside before rolling onto his side and lazily hugging his pillow.

Closing his eyes once again, he not only saw the face of the guy he secretly craved, but he heard his voice, too; the strikingly arousing, monotonous voice. 'Wow, you really are a fag.' He could feel the heat return to his neck as he sleepily muffled out a "Fuck you, Craig."

Yeah, he wished.


End file.
